


Copy Of A...

by Brenda



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, M/M, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:12:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When he opens his eyes, his gaze catches on the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the room. On the fine strands of cornsilk hair mussed by his fingers and the slender slope of shoulders under sheer, white fabric. Sees himself, taller and dark-haired, hands spanning those narrow hips with a gentle touch, and there's something familiar and intrinsic in the scene, an instinct as finely ingrained in him as the need for breath.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Long-lashed eyes, still so very blue, even in the shadowed light, catch his own. "Are you alright?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"This..." He hesitates, a breath between heartbeats, and waits in vain for the ache to subside. "I've done this before."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Copy Of A...

The client steps back, admires her handiwork with a small, satisfied nod. "Yes, you'll do very well," she says. "Do you understand the parameters of your mission?"

It's phrased like a question, but he pulls his shoulders back, stands at parade rest. Answers it like the order it is. "Yes ma'am."

"Good. Tell me."

He does so in clipped, economical terms. His back is ramrod straight. "The target is Chad Gaines. American engineer, specializing in Advanced Aerodynamics. Level six priority."

She nods approvingly again. "And you understand that discretion is of the upmost importance for this particular mission?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And you understand why you have been chosen?"

"The target prefers men." Prefers a certain type of man, hence the haircut and shave and the luxurious cut of his bespoke tux. "A Black Widow would be inadequate for your needs."

"And this will not pose a problem for you?"

"No ma'am." He wonders why she's asking. Perhaps this is a test. "My wants are irrelevant to the mission." 

" _Very_ good." She straightens his bowtie with a deft touch, and speaks to the handler standing at his ten o'clock. "If he's as good as you say, I may have need of him for another mission. How long before he's ready?"

"The normal recalibration process is 72 hours."

"Excellent," she says, and returns her focus to him. "Now, tell me. What is your name?"

He does not hesitate. "My name is –"

***

" – Jim Barnwell," he says, shaking the offered hand in a firm grip. He lingers three-point-two seconds longer than necessary, softens his smile to match the touch.

The return smile is shy, but genuine, an artless weapon of flirtation that nonetheless hits its mark. "A fellow American, thank goodness. Chad Gaines," he says, although Jim does not need the introduction. 

Chad Gaines is short and frail-looking, but his voice is surprisingly deep, and his hands are large and well-callused. His touch also lingers – interest engaged and returned. "Where do you hail from, Jim?"

Jim thinks about his cover, carefully constructed by the handler and the client, and the file he'd memorized before he'd left the safe house. Thinks about the target's file, also carefully memorized and carefully dissected. His cover will not be adequate.

"Brooklyn," he lies, but it _feels_ like truth. He's always excelled at improvising when the need calls for it.

"No shit? I grew up in the Village." High splotches of color appear on Chad's cheeks. His eyes, large and long-lashed and as blue as the Ural River in winter, seem even bigger in the confines of that thin face. His hair is the color of cornsilk and just as fine. Jim fights the urge to smooth the cowlick just above Chad's bangs. His urges are irrelevant to the mission.

_Stop that, 'm not a damn kid anymore._

"Small world," Jim remarks, with a carefully calculated smile that softens his eyes. The champagne in his hand is dry and crisp and very very expensive, but he drains the flute in one long swallow, and licks his bottom lip when he's done. Another carefully calculated move.

"Small world indeed," Chad agrees. His interested gaze tracks the movement of Jim's tongue. Chad's tuxedo is impeccably tailored, but even the best clothier wouldn't have been able to disguise the slenderness of his hips or the narrow set to his shoulders. "So...can I buy you a real drink?"

Jim sets the empty flute on the tray of a passing waiter, rakes his eyes over Chad and his hands and mouth. "Yes," he replies, and follows those slender hips and narrow shoulders across the room. He thinks he's been following slender hips and narrow shoulders since the dawn of time. This also feels like truth.

Chad orders them both gin on the rocks when they get to the bar. The four-piece band on the stage is playing something light, soothing, a sonata, perhaps, or concerto. There are two hundred and thirty-seven guests in the main ballroom and small salons off to the sides, twenty-two wait staff milling the floor attending to the guests' every need, and twelve cooks and prep staff in the kitchen. Eighteen exit points on the main floor, another twelve on the second (including the roof), and only four lightly armed men roaming the entire room. Jim tracks their movements with an idle sweep, dismisses each one as irrelevant, a non-threat, and returns his focus to the man beside him.

"Tell me about yourself." Chad's voice invites intimacy, the deep twang of it familiar in a way he can't quantify.

Jim waits a beat for the ache in his chest – a momentary recalibration he instantly catalogues as irrelevant and forgets – to pass. "The usual, home, school, job with a good company, get to travel a bit. Pretty boring stuff."

"You don't look like a man who knows the meaning of the word," Chad replies, peering up at him with a half-lidded look that burns through him, white-hot.

"Looks can be deceiving," he says, with another warm smile. "But I'm pretty married to my work."

"Something I can understand. What is it you do?"

"A little bit of this, little bit of that these days. Invested in shipping after the war, made a little dough, but I'm always looking to diversify my holdings. A client invited me here tonight." The lies roll easily off his tongue. He half-turns, blocks Chad's view of everyone else with his body, boxes them in a cozy cocoon. Just the two of them. This, too, comes easy. "What about you?"

"I'm in robotics," Chad says. "I know, it sounds ridiculous, but it's a growing market." He shifts so they're almost touching, thighs, hips and shoulders pulling together like pole ends of a magnet. "You should look into it, if you're looking to invest in something new. That's the future right there."

Jim thinks about the gleam and shine of the hand hiding beneath his pristine white glove. Tries to think about the future, but all he can envision is a dimly lit, stifling hot room on a summer's day and the echo of breathless laughter in his ear. "Robotics, huh."

"Robotics," Chad confirms. His eyes are so guileless and so very blue.

_I swear, you've got prettier eyes'n any dame I met._

Jim shifts imperceptibly closer. Watches Chad's subsequent blush bloom across that angular, high-cheekboned face, and the ache returns, throbs through him like an insistent beat. "You wanna get out of here?"

Chad's lips are lush and pink when he smiles and the dull ache flares into sharp hunger. "God yes."

***

The mouth on his is warm and soft and Jim moves with it, slants his head in invitation, and reaches for Chad's finely tailored jacket. The room is dark and secluded, private, with the only illumination coming from the perimeter lights beyond the window. Jim can hear the muted strains of music through the closed door, but he tunes it out, focuses on the rapid beat of the heart under his hand.

"I don't normally do this," Chad's saying – laughing – against his lips as he leans up and in for another kiss. Jim returns it easily, widens his stance so the height difference isn't so great, and this feels...

He's _done_ this before.

When he opens his eyes, his gaze catches on the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the room. On the fine strands of cornsilk hair mussed by his fingers and the slender slope of shoulders under sheer, white fabric. Sees himself, taller and dark-haired, hands spanning those narrow hips with a gentle touch, and there's something familiar and intrinsic in the scene, an instinct as finely ingrained in him as the need for breath.

Long-lashed eyes, still so very blue, even in the shadowed light, catch his own. "Are you alright?"

"This..." He hesitates, a breath between heartbeats, and waits in vain for the ache to subside. "I've done this before."

A small, amused laugh huffs over his skin. "Well, I certainly hope so, as well as you kiss."

"No, I mean..." He tightens his hands, shifts until he and Chad are slotted together, thighs and hips and groins and chests pressed tight and close, their heartbeats thudding in time, and _this_ feels like truth. "You remind me of someone."

The second he says it, a flash appears behind his eyelids. Another darkened room, another kiss that tastes of sunlight and safety, eyes like the sky at noon looking at him like he's the only relevant thing in the world. 

Chad smiles and wraps his arms around Jim's neck to pull them even closer together. "Someone good, I hope."

_I just wanna stand up for the people that can't, that's all, nothing heroic about it._

"Yes," Jim replies, and closes the distance between them, the kiss hot and hungry and impatient. Gives in to the ache and the want – both irrelevant, both impossible to ignore – for a handful of moments that stretch impossibly long. He can feel the rapid beating of Chad's heartbeat, the hot puffs of breathless air on his lips between kisses and all of it is familiar and _right_ and not important –

Chad never even notices the syringe until it's far, far too late.

***

It only takes a few minutes to find the small disc – tucked away in a hidden pocket of Chad's crisply ironed trousers – but for some reason, he (not Jim, he'd shed Jim's easy-going, flirtatious, far too familiar skin the moment Chad had toppled boneless into his arms) lingers in the room. Lingers on the slumped, still figure on the sofa, at the wispy-fine strands of blond hair, and the fan of black lashes brushing along the top of high cheekbones. Remembers the weight of blue eyes holding him in place and the tenderness of a kiss that had reminded him of endless summer days and warm laughter against heated skin.

_You don't have to do this. You have a choice._

There's a chill in the air that moves through his veins like ice.

Muted laughter and music trickle in through the thick oak door. A couple – slightly staggering, drunk or on their way to it – stumble down the hallway and down the sweeping staircase. His breaths sound much too loud in this hushed space. His hands are clenched into tight fists, pulling at the cloth of his gloves. And the ache still throbs in the space between his ribs.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs and his lips are soft, soft and delicate, on pale, cold skin. He brushes stray strands of hair from a smooth forehead, and stops himself from letting his fingers drift down, from checking for a pulse he knows he won't find.

 _I'm sorry_ , he thinks, but orders are orders, and soldiers obey.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Melle, Jo, Kali and Geckoholic for looking this over for me and assuring me it wasn't too fucked up to post. 
> 
> You can now find me on [Tumblr](http://brendaonao3.tumblr.com/). :)


End file.
